A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery

Chapter 1

I STARED, UNCOMPREHENDING, AT THE BLOOD AS IT welled up into a perfect sphere, balanced precariously on the ball of my thumb. Finally the surface tension broke and the globe turned into a trickle, running down my hand. That transformation also broke the spell on me, and I stuck my thumb into my mouth as the vibrant pain of the slice brought itself to my utmost attention. The excruciating sensation did nothing, however, to mitigate the triumph at hand, and I knew that if I was still capable of making puns like that, I needn’t call the undertaker just yet.

It wasn’t the paper cut that was causing my good mood to evaporate, however. I was sitting, freezing, in my faithful, though beat-up Civic outside the gates of the Shrewsbury Foundation, and as their newest Fellow, I really hadn’t expected the kind of treatment I was receiving. All I wanted to do was get up to my room, unpack, and get ready for the four weeks of research that awaited me, but the supercilious guard who had so thoughtlessly snatched my acceptance letter away was taking his time checking his clipboard.

I sighed while he looked at the letter again suspiciously, like the barbarian hordes were crouched just behind me, waiting to storm the gates of Shrewsbury. I was tired; at three o’clock in the afternoon it had already been a long day. As excited as I was to be here, it had taken forever to pack, and of course I’d postponed it until the last minute, delaying the moment when I would have to abandon my husband, Brian, to the rigors of solitary household renovation for the next month. As a result, I’d left nearly two hours later than I’d expected, but the drive from our home in Lawton, in northern Massachusetts, out to Monroe in the western part of the state had perked me up immeasurably, perhaps even encouraging me to push the Civic beyond its present capacity and ignore the speed limit.

The views of the Berkshires were wonderful from the highway, vistas of craggy, wind-buffeted trees and steep gray cliffs, and I realized, a little guiltily, at how much I was looking forward to getting away from the never-ending home improvements and escaping into work that was purely my own. Libraries had always been where I’d gone to make sense of the world, and this one had the added lure of primary sources directly related to my work. I even had a chance to visit friends who worked nearby. I was on my own, and it was a good day for driving: clear, cold, and just a little overcast. After a couple of uneventful hours, I found myself in Redfield County, where the hilly terrain made my ears pop regularly and the pines and bare oaks stood out against the empty March sky. There the driving got a little more interesting; I was wrestling for the steering wheel with the wind, resisting the pull to the edge of the road and the cliff.

And then I didn’t resist. I pulled over, got out, and considered the vista before me, cataloguing it as would a social scientist and someone with a nodding acquaintance with geology and environmental studies. My stomach contracted even before I reached the guardrail and considered the drop down to the icy river below. I forgot to wonder whether the area had been formed by volcanism or tectonic smashing and forced myself to edge over and look straight down. I craned my neck to see, as if the mere act of moving closer to the cliff meant that I would immediately hurl myself over the side. The black water one hundred feet below me looked as though it sucked all the light and heat from the surroundings, keeping the town on the opposite rocky bank firmly entrenched in late wintry gloom. As if that weren’t enough, the little factory town—I didn’t even know what its name was—appeared to have seen better days since its founding; there was no smoke coming from the stack and there were no lights in the windows. A lone car moved along the street on the opposite bank, and I shivered. It might have been that the mill or factory was now converted to a high-technology haven, and the light was wrong for me to tell that there was any life inside; it might have been that the town was enjoying a well-earned rest before they geared up for a thriving summer tourist trade, but I had no way of knowing. From this distance, it all seemed as bleak as the cliffs, as scrubby and weather-worn as the firs I saw by the riverbank. I pulled my coat closer and got back into my car. I was surprised that the view should have had that dismal effect on me, but I chalked it up to a too-hectic schedule and fatigue.

Driving another twenty minutes brought me to Monroe, the town closest to the library, and the source of the Shrewsbury family’s wealth. At least I could see signs of life here—cars filled the main street, shops were open and busy—and that cheered me again.

The Shrewsbury Foundation was located a short distance outside of Monroe, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its grounds. From what I could see of the house from the breaks in the trees along the road—one of the hazards of creating a view for yourself is that it also tends to put you on display—the fence suited the place, all Victorian gothic and curlicues. The real blot on the landscape was this foolish, imposing, and totally inappropriate guardhouse at the main entrance, complete with an orange-and-white-striped hinge barrier—nothing could have been more obvious or obnoxious a bar to the outside world. When I pulled up to it, its occupant was watching a monitor carefully.

That had been nearly two minutes ago. Perhaps he’d forgotten about me, turning into a paper-cut popsicle in the still-cold March air.

I tried again. Hello there!

The window slid open slowly, and a blast of warm air rushed out of the house toward me. I only noticed it because, even with the Civic’s heater chugging away, I was still wondering about the possibility of hypothermia.

The man—a guard presumably—wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a smartly tailored suit and regimental-style tie. There was a posh-looking overcoat hung up at the back of the booth. His iron gray hair was expensively cut and blow-dried in the vertically puffy style that Brian would have derisively described as ’possum head, and he was clean shaven with a tan that bespoke beach vacations or trips to a tanning booth. The whole impact was one of self-indulgence and image consciousness.

When I’d explained who I was, he’d snatched my letter from me—resulting in the paper cut—and then studied the paper like it was a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. When I called out again, he took his time sticking his head out the window, moving with the lassitude of a reptile in a cold climate.

Is there some problem? I shouted over my engine. I was told it was all right to move into the house today, even if it is Sunday.

The guard looked at me with a disapproving frown, then cast a glance at a clipboard with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. We were expecting you over two hours ago. He finally handed my letter back to me slowly, but then made no move to wave me through.

Got a late start, I explained, smiling. Sorry.

Can I see your license please? Some form of picture identification?

Usually, this was the part I loved, where I got to say Open sesame and enter the secret cavern. I would be initiated into the rites of another institution, become part of another community. When I’d handed over my acceptance letter at his request, I’d at least expected some recognition that, for a while in any case, I was one of them, one of the privileged few who would be allowed to handle the treasures that were kept in the library. Maybe a smile of welcome, even if my credentials didn’t impress him the way I thought they should. But this guy was doing his level best to act the literal part of a gatekeeper and was obviously relishing it.

No one had said a thing about needing extra I.D., I said, trying to restrain my annoyance; of course they had to be careful around here. He was just being a stickler and for good reason: Shrewsbury held one of the most valuable print collections of Americana in the world. Here you go.

The man made a real show of comparing me with my license picture. If I had suspected him of having the least sense of humor or a working knowledge of Shakespeare, I would have given him my version of Olivia’s inventory: two eyes, indifferent hazel; hair, not so red as to be called carrot but neither so brown as a sparrow; one nose, inoffensive and called by some attractive; one mouth, ditto, etc. The guard was really taking his time; he could have guessed from looking at me that I claim to be five nine and then compared the rest of the information with that on the acceptance letter. I mean, no one’s license looks just like them, but he should have at least believed his own eyes. Something was going on here.

Can I have my key, please? I asked, a little miffed. I was tired and my magic word wasn’t opening Ali Baba’s cave.

Abruptly the guard, or whoever he was, handed me my license and a key on a fancy key chain. "No need to get testy. Here’s a key to the house—please don’t lose it. You’ll find a packet waiting for you there with all the information you’ll need. Please familiarize yourself with our security protocols. Stop by the main office in the library annex tomorrow morning to get your picture taken for your I.D. I’ll expect you at nine. He looked at me shivering, then surveyed the dirt-and-salt-covered Civic and was similarly unimpressed. Promptly. Ask for me, Mr. Constantino."

Thanks. I rolled up my window with a hand I could barely feel. The striped barrier rose up hesitantly, as if reluctant to admit me. Jerk, I muttered, as I got the car into gear and drove up the hill.

I pulled up the long sloping drive, both sides lined with woods. The trees were huge stately things that gradually thinned out into a large, open area near the summit of the hill to reveal the house. House seemed too small and too warm a word to describe the structure. What I saw was a three-story stone mansion, built at the very height of the Gothic revival. The main part of the house had arched windows and was fronted by a tall rectangular tower with a castellated roof. It didn’t matter that the skinny towers that were on either side of the center-hall tower were only decorative, and it didn’t matter that this summer residence wasn’t truly on the scale of the Newport cottages: this place was designed to impress. I knew that I was blown away.

I pulled off the road to the small parking lot at the back of the house and could see fragments of the road twisting down and around a number of small rises, leading north to the library annex, I figured. It was clear that the house and other buildings were in the southwest corner of the enormous property, because I could see the fence following the stream to the west, and nothing but gently rolling hills, valleys, and woods to the east and south. I noted with some irony that Monroe was obscured, being behind the next hill to the south—nothing to obscure the views of sunrise and sunset, nothing to remind the former—or present—inhabitants of Shrewsbury of the world outside. The stream marked part of the western boundary, then cut across and down the slope on which the house sat, following the road for a while before it cut across that in a culvert and flowed off to the south.

I tried the door near the lot and found that my key opened the lock: at last. That led to a large eat-in kitchen that looked like it might have been scaled down for more limited use after the family and its staff had left. Contrary to the medieval-looking exterior, it was modern with a stainless steel gas range and refrigerator. It was the sort of setup that Brian and I drooled over but could never think of affording; at this point, I was glad to have walls where they were called for in the kitchen, never mind gourmet accoutrements. A small staircase, presumably for the servants, led up from the kitchen. Leaving that room, I passed a small dining room opposite the kitchen on the central hall, and farther down, there was a monstrous staircase suitable for descending debutantes, epic sword fights, and banister sliding. At the bottom of the stairs, a parlor was off to the right, and to the left was a study. Right in front of me was the foyer and front entryway.

In the front hall was a small table with discreet notices left for residents, and I found my packet there. There was also a Victorian coat stand, the sort with a seat, hooks, and an umbrella rack, just like Grandpa Oscar and Grandma Ida used to have in Cambridge. On the table I found a room key marked 3, and so began the trek up the stairs. Number 3 was off to the left and faced the front. Just like downstairs, there were four rooms, two on either side of the hallway, with the bathroom in an addition on the back. The stairs that had led up from the kitchen passed through here, on the way up to the third floor that had been the servants’ quarters.

When I opened the door I saw what was to be my home for the next four weeks. The room was large, with a huge carved bed, leather-covered desk, a straight-backed wooden chair, an armoire, and another chair, this one stuffed and more comfortable-looking than the one at the desk. The windows were large, and I was thrilled with the view out the front of the house.

For a moment I was overwhelmed by a sense of luxury that had nothing to do with my opulent surroundings: It was privacy. I was free from worrying about which room was packed with the furniture of the room that was being renovated. I didn’t have to think about whether I would have to make a run to the hardware store after dinner to try and get the right-size widget for the third time, so I could have my bathtub back. I figured it was a good thing that I had a superlative husband waiting for me at home, otherwise between the deluxe living quarters and the library, they’d have a hard time getting rid of me.

But then I realized that I was glad to have a break from Brian himself, which took me by surprise. It wasn’t that I felt any differently about him—I knew I loved him as much as ever—but lately it seemed as if we were spending all of our energy on everything but us. The work on the house was important, but I didn’t like feeling as if it owned us, was driving us, instead of the other way around. Maybe if I had this time to spend on my own research, with no students, no house, no husband to make demands on me, I would be able to get my head into a clearer space to see how better to handle the things that were piling up on top of us.

I walked next door to the central hallway over the foyer and found that it had been made into a small sitting area with an extension phone and had a wonderful view of the south forty, then the mountains in the distance, same as my room. Back in my room, I chucked my suitcase on the bed and then made several trips for my boxes of books and papers. By the time I was finished I was absolutely pooped, but thought that a walk around would clear my head, show me the grounds, and stretch my tired back. I flicked on my cell phone to see how low the battery was: damn. Plenty of battery charge, but I could get no signal in the house. Leaving my unpacking for later, I grabbed my coat, gloves, and key, and thumped down the stairs, banister sliding postponed for the moment.

The house seemed to be deserted, but as I headed out back through the kitchen I found the first of my colleagues—who’d probably missed me by coming down the back staircase or through the front. He was a small, pudgy man, nearly bald with a wisp of dark hair slicked across the top of his sweaty scalp. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers that were shiny with wear and tight across the seat. I could hear the muted strains of synthetic music coming out of a pair of headphones clamped to his head—the reason he didn’t hear me enter. He was replacing a bottle of Cutty Sark in one of the cupboards when I startled him, and he turned around to glare at me owlishly through his thick black glasses, nervously muttering, ooh, oh dear. It occurred to me that he looked precisely like Morocco Mole without the fez.

You startled me! he exclaimed, as he pulled the headphones off. I could hear Kenny G. You must be the new one, er, ah, Dr.—?

Emma Fielding, I said, extending a hand. His hand was small and a little clammy from the ice in the glass.

I’m John Miner—Jack, he said, transferring his drink back to his right hand and taking a big sip. Welcome, welcome. What are you researching?

Madam Margaret Chandler’s diary is here. I did a little survey at the Chandler house last summer, and it has a good eighteenth-century component intact, so I’m going back in a season or two. Then I found out her diary still existed, and here I am.

Survey? Component? He screwed up his face in puzzlement, and I realized I’d lapsed into professional jargon.

I’m excavating the site of her home, I explained. I’m an archaeologist.

I had been expecting the usual curiosity, even excitement, that comes when I tell people what I do for a living, but Jack only looked doubtful and cleared his throat. Ah. How interesting.

Clearly, he wasn’t about to admit that he’d always wanted to be an archaeologist the way so many people did at cocktail parties. I changed tack. What is your work? I read the letter describing who else would be here, but I can’t recall. You’re also doing the eighteenth century, right?

Jack brightened a bit. I’m just putting the finishing touches on my book on the economic history of the Connecticut River valley during the Revolution. There are some very important manuscripts regarding the lumbering concerns here.

I tried to look enthusiastic, but economic history bores the pants off me. Fair enough; even folks in related fields couldn’t always get excited about the same things. Well, it seems like this is the place to be then, isn’t it? I’m going for a walk, would you like to join me?

Jack was confused. Where are you going to walk to? There’s nothing out there. Not for miles.

I laughed a little, figuring he was kidding. I’m not going anywhere, just down to the library and back, have a look at the scenery.

He shook his head violently, scenery apparently not big on his list of priorities. Oh no, no thank you. It’s just trees and cold out there. No, ma’am, not for me.

Then I guess I’ll see you later—

The rest of us are driving into Boston tonight for dinner, and if you like you could join us. Jack was doing his best to be kind. He reached over and pulled out the batteries from a charger plugged in by the sink. You can meet Michael and Faith. Faith’s staying in town tonight, doing work there for a couple of days, so you won’t get a chance to meet her until she gets back midweek. But perhaps that’s just as well, she’s er, a bit, um, you know…

I cocked my head and smiled vaguely to encourage him, but apparently Jack thought better of it. He carefully replaced the batteries in his stereo, placing the old ones in the charger. But Michael, he’s just come in now. He’s in the parlor, um, I guess. Will you join us?

I considered it, then shook my head. Thanks, but I don’t think I’m up to another long drive today. I’ll go for my walk, then unpack, get some rest. Maybe next time.

Maybe next time. We have sort of a bathroom schedule for the morning, he said, rubbing his hands together like a raccoon washing its food. You could either go before me, about six-thirty, or after Faith, about seven-thirty.

The later the better, as far as I’m concerned. This is practically a vacation for me, and I’m going to make the most of sleeping in while I don’t have to commute too far.

Well, that’s all right then. As I headed for the door, Jack looked concerned for a minute. You do know it’s almost a mile to the library as the road goes, don’t you? It’s freezing out there.

I smiled: He needn’t have worried. I regularly ran five miles. Thanks, I’ll be fine. See you later.

Realizing that Jack was at least right about the outside temperature, I decided to get a scarf. On my way back through the hall, I ran across the second of my three fellow Fellows in the darkened parlor. Or at least, I thought I had. All I could see was a large dark shape off to one side of the couch.

Hello? I asked quietly, just so Jack wouldn’t hear, in case I was actually greeting a pile of coats or something.

The pile stirred and a voice came mournfully from the depths of the cloth. Oh God.

I looked around and flicked the light switch. I didn’t mean to disturb you, I wasn’t certain if you were a— A piece of furniture, I almost said. —asleep.

I wasn’t asleep. The man had an attractive face, chiseled nose, fine lips, and wavy dark hair that was just a little too long in just the right way. His eyes were still closed.

I’m Emma Fielding.

Of course you are, came the reply, heavy with weltschmerz.

My eyes adjusted to the light, and I saw that the bulky lump was not a pile of coats, but a tall man wrapped in an enormous greatcoat and scarf. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, and, not getting up or opening his eyes, stuck it out in front of him, presumably for me to shake.

Michael Glasscock. You’re looking at that eighteenth-century diary, right? His eyes opened on pronunciation of his name, and they were stunning, a deep sapphire blue. He looked the way I always imagined Heathcliff did, and I admit, in spite of his odd behavior, my heart beat a little quicker and my breathing got a little shallower.

Damn it. Why does just the thought of library work always have this effect on me?

That’s right. He knew what I was working on! Margaret Chandler’s husband, Justice Matthew Chandler, was a fairly consequential jurist in the early part of the eighteenth century. He had his finger in every important political pie, and there’s been some research done on his life, but no one’s ever done a full-scale excavation at the site of their house. And no one’s ever tried to see how Madam Chandler might have fit into things, aside from a few little articles from the turn of the century, you know, colonial revival great lady as helpmeet" stuff. So I’m hoping to look at it all together, write the book, a little feminist theory, a little social history…" I did a little cha-cha in time with my plans. I really was showing off, but Michael Glasscock didn’t notice.

Oh. Goody, he said in a monotone.

I combed desperately through my memory. You’re doing something on the American Transcendentalists, aren’t you?

Idealists. God, they just didn’t have a clue, did they? he said. Michael got up and stretched, catlike, then slunk over to prop up the mantelpiece. I just can’t stand how naive they were. Painful.

That floored me; shouldn’t he have been acting more the role of the apologist, if he were interested in them? Sure, naive, but they thought they could change the world with their ideals. Not such a bad thing. Then I couldn’t resist asking. What drew you to them?

I study the history of American philosophy, and there was money in them, he said, with a monumental shrug of resignation. It pays the bills.

He must have seen the unconcealed look of surprise on my face, but Michael just laughed hugely and humorlessly. Oh, God. You’re worried that I’m a cynic. Well, Emma, you don’t know the half of it. I take it you met our august colleague already. Jack about half in the bag by now?

Uh, he’s in the kitchen.

Michael looked as if he expected my polite evasion, and it didn’t impress him. He’s wandering from institution to institution on the strength of the book until it’s time for him to retire. He told you about the book, right?

I could only nod. Dr. Glasscock was a decidedly odd duck and getting odder every minute.

Those ‘finishing touches’ have been in the works for about seven years now and counting, so I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for it. Why they don’t just let him go early so he can finish drinking himself to death in peace is just beyond me.

Oh. It seemed the only safe thing to say, under the circumstances, but it wasn’t safe enough. Michael picked up on my reticence.

Oh, come off it, Auntie. I’m just being honest. Michael patted himself down, then caught himself. Shit, no smoking in this crypt. This place is going to be the end of me. He sighed with galactic weariness. I just thought maybe you would be someone who enjoys the truth as much as I do.

That nettled me—I always fancied myself as more than usually truthful and open-minded. Yeah, well, facts are one thing, but I think that we of all people could agree that history—or the truth—is never as straightforward as one person’s take on it.

Michael was unaffected by my tart response. Like I said, you don’t know the half of it. He slunk back and resumed his place on the couch and once again, closed his eyes. See you around, probably. If you could turn the light off on your way out, I would consider it a great kindness.

I got my scarf as quickly as I could and shut the heavy door to the house firmly, trying to get a little distance between me and my new housemates. When I found myself hoping that this Faith person would be a little more normal than the other two, I reined in my thoughts. I was just tired and new to the scene, more than a little suggestible and in need of fresh air. Researchers and academics of every stripe have their quirks, and everything would seem a little less enigmatic after I’d had a couple of hours to settle in.

I set out briskly to chase the gloom from my mind and the cold from my veins. Following the road as it snaked away from the house, I moved over the hillocks on the slope on which the house stood, which eventually led out to a flatter stretch, delineated by a small brook. The wind wasn’t as bad now as when I’d been driving, and I could just detect the signs of life beginning to peep out of the dead-looking ground. Little pale green shoots reached up through the carpet of muddy brown leaves and small buds appeared on the trees and bushes around me. A little gazebo stood in the middle of an open area some way off the road and I was stopped in my tracks by the view when I climbed up into it. The hill on which the estate was settled dropped away into a plain and I could see the countryside for miles to the east, the rest of the Shrewsbury property with the thin line of the fence in the distance and Monroe’s lights nestled in the western Massachusetts hills farther south. The sense of exposure I felt took me unawares; although anyone from out of state might not have noticed the difference, it was unusual for me, accustomed to the crowded seacoast, to see such thinly inhabited expanses to the western horizon.

Farther down the road, I found the library and security offices just beyond the next turn, nested snugly in a little dell surrounded by more of the imposing trees. The library clearly postdated the original house, as the Tudor-revival style in the United States came into vogue closer to the turn of the twentieth century, but the stone-clad walls and low gabled roof line complemented the older house. I remembered from somewhere that the annex had been originally used as a retreat and guesthouse. The building was two stories, with a one-story ell in back, but the low roof and spread-out design made it blend into the surrounding landscape. I decided that it was pretty but nothing special, unusual only for what I knew was locked up inside: one of the best collections of Americana anywhere. I turned around and headed back.

I was halfway home again, really feeling beat now, when I heard the engine of a large car behind me. When I turned and saw that it was a security vehicle, an SUV, I moved a little closer to the side of the road so the driver could get by. The driver made no move to continue, so I waved him on. Nothing. I resumed walking and still he followed me, at a snail’s pace, not passing, not falling back. If he wanted something, he should have rolled his window down and asked, rather than trailing me like this. I let him follow for another fifteen steps before I got worried about what was going on, and suddenly cut across his path so that he had to